What If Delicious
by restive nature
Summary: This story, is just an offshoot of what might have happened in my other story WiC. All things come together and when it involves John’s kids, that coming together spells DOOM.


Series Title: What If

Chapter Title: Delicious

Author: Restive Nature

Disclaimer: Neither show represented in this fiction belongs to me. Dark Angel is the product of Cameron/Eglee and Fox, whereas Supernatural is the product of Kripke and The CW. No profits are made from this fiction and it is intended for private enjoyment only.

Rating: PG-13 for some swearing

Genre: Crossover

Type: Humor

Pairing: None

Summary: All things come together and when it involves John's kids, that coming together spells DOOM.

Spoilers/ Timeline: This takes place while the Winchester clan is still living in Montana for the year of schooling.

Feedback: Always welcome!

Distribution: Ask first please.

A/N: I told my husband my idea about this and he thought I was incredibly cruel, so of course I wrote it out and had a blast doing so.

A/N2: This story, while being in the same universe as _When It Changes_, does not actually occur within that storyline. This fiction is just an off-shoot of what **might **have happened.

John rubbed a weary finger against his grit filled eye as he turned off the sidewalk leading up to home. At least the closest thing to home recently. He wished fervently, even though he was but steps from the house that he hadn't let Dean take the car today. He was bone weary worn out. John couldn't imagine why Dean had needed the cat. It all had to do with whatever the kids had been cooking up for the last few days. They were planning something.

As he moved the last few steps up the walk something fluttering and white caught his eyes. Knowing how persnickety his landlords could be about litter and despite the ache in his weary bones, John stooped over to pick it up. Turning over the fairly long strip, he discovered a grocery receipt. Without conscious thought, he scanned it over, wondering how it had come to his doorstep. It was dated that day, yet there was surprisingly for Montana in March, no wind to speak of. John's hand that was reaching for the doorknob stopped in shock when the distasteful word 'tofu' jumped out at him. Someone in this Podunk two bar town ate tofu? Of course it could be one of those families that owned a good portion of the town and considered themselves a cut above the rest of the population. John re-read the list, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he took in items that would never be found in his home. Wheat germ? Carrot juice? Who on earth could live like that?

Crumpling the paper in his fist, John reached for the handle once more, but froze when he heard something banding inside, followed by loud cursing. Dean, he would have guessed from the intensity and inventiveness of the vocabulary. Puzzled and slightly worried, John inched open the door, unsure as to what he would find. The acrid scent of burnt something assaulted him immediately.

"Hurry up! Dad should be home any minute! God that stuff stinks Sammy." That was Dean.

"And that's my fault how?" Sammy's tone was most definitely petulant.

"I think it's really burning." Max somehow didn't sound as calm as she usually did.

"Turn it over Sam!"

"Where did you put the spatula?"

"Guys! The tofu's on fire!"

The conversation, if it could be called that, rapidly degenerated to the typical blame game. But John had heard enough. He ducked back out of the house, shutting the door as quietly as possible, hoping against hope that the kids hadn't noticed. Standing on the step, the crumpled grocery receipt in hand, the memory of the kids' enigmatic smiles, it al came together. And together, it spelled doom.

Before he even realized it, John had taken to his heels, away from the house and was heading down the street. He turned into the first refuge he found, the bar. Grateful indeed, he didn't notice the heads turning as he stomped in, the screen door banging shut behind him.

"Dana!" he called to the barkeep. "I'm gonna need beer and plenty of it." To his relief Dana responded simply by reaching for a tall glass and the tap of John's favored beer. Tofu, in any shape or form required plenty of fortification.

"He gone?" Dean asked with a smirk. He turned his head to look over his shoulder at Sam, stationed in the archway, watching through the living room window. His younger brother held up a finger, waited a moment and then dropped his hand.

"He's gone," Sam confirmed, returning to the kitchen, specifically the counter. Picking up the knife he'd abandoned, he returned to slicing vegetables for the salad that he was in charge of. "So how many beers do you think he'll need?"

Dean changed his glance to take in Max at the sink. The girl was running water over the charred remains of the unfortunate tofu, trying to dispel some of the stink. "Oh, three or four at least."

Max pursed her lips before shutting off the water and setting the smoldering pan on a pot holder on the counter. "Well dinner will be ready at seven. Any later and it will dry out and get cold."

"Don't worry kiddo," Dean smiled affectionately. "I can guarantee you that Dad will be here. He'll slam that first beer, call us with some excuse about extra work, have a few more and walk in that door at seven on the dot."

"And are we still gonna…?" Sam asked, trailing off as he gestured to a bandana lying on the table.

"Hey, if Dad's gonna act like he's heading to the executioner, who are we to deny him?" Dean chuckled menacingly.

"Whoa," Dana cautioned as John gulped down the last mouthful of beer. "Easy there man!"

John returned the glass to the varnished wood bar, the bottom of the glass thunking soundly against the solid surface. "Another please."

"What's got you so hepped up?" Dana asked as he poured another for John, who was counting out the bills to pay for his drinks.

"Kids are cookin' tonight," John replied tersely as he gave in and sank down to a bar stool. It wobbled slightly until John settled his weight to one side.

"That a bad thing?" Ole Heinburg, to John's right, asked.

"When it features tofu as a main course, it is," John replied with a trace of humor. The whole bar groaned in sympathy, even those it seemed, who weren't even within earshot. "Hey can I borrow the phone?"

"Sure thing man," Dana replied easily, reaching behind himself for the cordless that sat within reach.

"Here we go," Dean grinned as the telephone rang. It startled none of them, since they were all waiting for that exact moment. He let it ring once more and then pulled the receiver off of the hook. "Hello?"

"Hey Dean," John's voice was soft and if Dean were pressed to say, hesitant.

"Hey Dad," Dean wiggled his eyebrows at his siblings, who were trying desperately to muffle their giggles. "What's up?"

"Just called to tell you I'm going to be late tonight," John informed him guardedly.

"Oh? How late?"

"Dunno. Could be a while. Got a last minute repair job come in."

"So? That shouldn't take too long."

"Well there's a bunch of holes."

"Okay," Dean paused. "It's just, we're getting hungry Dad."

"Oh well, you guys go ahead and eat," John told him promptly and with evident relief. "I can heat something up when I get home."

"Nah," Dean groaned realistically. "We can wait for you Dad."

"Well I hate to make you guys wait," John sighed. "You just go ahead and eat."

Dean gave his brother and sister a thumb up and deliberately dropped his voice to a whisper. "I would Dad, but the kids have something special planned for ya." He paused a moment to feign reconciliation. "Do you think you can make it home by seven?"

There was a longer pause on John's end. "Yeah. I'll be home by seven." A sigh. "Say, if you're going to be cooking tonight, you know, spaghetti sounds good."

"Yeah I guess," Dean smirked, glancing at the stove. "Hang on a sec." He playfully opened a cupboard, and then rustled a plastic bag that was in reach as Sam and Max clasped their hands over their mouths. Dean slammed the cupboard shut. "Sorry Dad," he sighed. "We're out of sauce. But that's okay. I'm sure I can whip something up."

"Yeah, sure you can," John echoed disconsolately.

"Okay,' so we'll see you at seven,"  
Dean confirmed and hung up on his father's whispered good-bye. He turned back to his siblings, clapped his hands together once. "Half hour 'til show time. Let's move people! Sam, noodles! Max, sauce! And I shall finish dessert!" Dean ordered triumphantly. Like a sports team huddled up for inspiration, they broke and rushed to complete their tasks, definitely having moved into the home stretch now.

"There's no help for it now," Ole commiserated. "You're just gonna have to man up and eat it."

Phil Shutts, now seated to John's left, nodded his head in agreement. "'Specially if'n your little girl had a hand in it. Womenfolk get mighty touchy when you don't appreciate those little surprises they come up with."

"What're you talking about? Womenfolk!" Dana snorted from behind the bar. He reached for his water and downed a gulp. "You haven't had a woman in the last decade. Hell. You eat down here twice a day seven days a week."

"And you remember the set to ol' Marti gave me when I didn't finish those curly fries," Phil reminded him triumphantly, the bartender having just helped to prove his point.

"They're her specialty," Dana defended, furthering Phil's cause. "She seasons 'em special."

"Be that as it may," Ole chuckled while signaling for another beer, "that don't help poor John at all here." There was another round of sympathetic groans as John toyed with the empty glass before him. His eyes slowly traveled upward, past the slim form of Dana, up to the engraved clock, a part of a merchandising scheme of one of the beer franchises. Two minutes to seven. It was time to head home. Pulling his hands from the glass, he pushed away from the bar while his feet dropped to the floor. He barely heard the farewells extended to him as he headed to the door. Pausing at the entryway, he flipped up the collar of his jacket, telling himself that it was probably getting windy out. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the sudden outbreak of snickers aimed his way.

"Here he comes!" Sam announced excitedly from his kneeling perch on their second hand sofa.

Dean glanced up at the clock and smirked. Seven on the dot. "Just like I said. Okay, go Max!"

The girl shared an impish grin with her elder brother as she snagged the specially folded bandana from the table. They'd all agreed that the request would be better off coming from her. That way, there was a chance that the old man would give in willingly.

The door opened and John appeared in the doorway, startled at being met by all three children. The excited babble seemed to catch him off guard. Their enthusiasm for the coming evening was magnified all the more by his lack of the same. He did however, manage to catch Max's request that he don the blindfold.

"Do I have to?" he blanched.

"Yes," Max smiled up at him sweetly, holding the fabric out to him. "We made you something special. A surprise." She paused for a millisecond. "Please Daddy."

John's heart skipped a beat. Her gamine little face turned up expectantly to his. The whole time that she'd been with them it had been 'sir' or John and since they'd started school, 'Dad'. This was the first time… John swallowed heavily and took the blindfold from her. He was well aware that he was in part, being just a little manipulated.

"Cut it out Dean!" he barked after he'd tied the blindfold securely around his eyes.

"What?" his son squawked, protesting. "I'm not doing anything."

"Put that finger away before I cut it off!" John growled.

You're peeking!" Sam accused, making John chuckle.

"No," he denied calmly, "I just know Dean."

"Well I wasn't doing what you thought I was doing," Dean retorted cheekily. "Though I'd look pretty funny with no index finger."

"So it was a British salute, huh?" John teased. The kids began leading him forward. "You're not gonna walk me into a wall are you?"

"Give us some credit for thinking ahead," Sam snorted as he nudged his father from behind. "We want to enjoy the evening, not have you screaming at us."

John bit off the retort that in that case, they shouldn't try stuffing him with tofu then. He reminded himself that it was supposed to be a surprise. He felt the temperature change as they entered the kitchen, indicating that the stove had been on recently. He took a cautionary sniff, finding a familiar and enticing scent. Thank the Lord and hallelujah, there was meat!

The kids led him to what he assumed was his usual seat. He sank down and waited for the onslaught. He could hear the scrape of utensils against a plate and chairs scraping against the floor. So, everyone was taking a seat.

"Here Dad," Dean commanded. He took John's hand and placed a utensil in it. "Try it."

"And stick a fork up my nose?" John snorted. He heard the kid's exasperated noises.

"Come on," Sam groaned. "Max made it especially for you.

John sighed. Ole, Phil and Dana's mocking voices were taunting him in the back of his mind. Carefully feeling with his fingers to figure out that he indeed did hold a fork, John guided the concoction to his mouth. Wondering if he could just throw it down his throat without having to taste it, he was caught off guard by the medley of flavors. Turkey and ham, both moist and seasoned perfectly with gooey mozzarella coating it teased his palate. His face scrunched up as he tried to detect any trace of tofu in his bite.

"April Fools!" the kids cried out. Startled, the fork dropped with a clatter as John yanked the blindfold from his face.

He blinked against the candlelight pervading the nicely set table. The kids' faces were illuminated as they leaned forward to watch his reaction. "What the hell?" he demanded gruffly. On each plate was part of a turkey breast stuffed with ham and smothered in cheese. Steamed broccoli and noodles covered in sauce accompanied them. Bowls of fresh salad sat by each plate and there were empty cups along with utensils and folded napkins. A few choices of soda sat at the far end of the table, along with salad dressings, croutons and a covered platter.

"Oh man!" Dean crowed as he pushed his chair back up on two legs and laughed.

"You should have seen your face Dad," Sam grinned. "You looked like you were being poisoned."

"B-but," John sputtered. "It's not April first yet."

"Yes it is," Dean nodded. He nudged Sam who sat closest to them, pointing at the bottle of cola.

"No it isn't hot shot!" John argued, holding out his arm, shaking his recently found wristwatch at his eldest. "See, 3-31. It's still March." Max clearing her throat interrupted him. He swung his head around to look. His daughter was wiggling her fingers at him, a pleased look on her face. "When?" he demanded.

"Two weeks ago after we did the dishes," she explained around the huge grin gracing her face. "I 'fixed' your watch and then planted it in the bathroom this morning."

"B-but," he stammered again. "The receipt and the tofu? You guys didn't go to the Falls yesterday!"

"No," Max agreed calmly, indicating to a smiling Sam that she preferred cream soda. "But Mrs. Protsma did," referring of course to her best friend's mother. "She's on a health food kick right now."

"And you wasted your money buying tofu?" John snarked, but Max was already shaking her head.

"Nope!" the word popped as she began cutting into her meal. The boys did likewise. "I asked Mrs. Protsma what tofu was like and she gave me some to try."

John looked at the kids, now calmly eating, down to his own plate. "And at the bar? At work?

Dean grinned and waggled his eyebrows at his father. "Every single one of them in on it," he explained around a mouthful of food. He closed his mouth with a snap and finished chewing. Once he had swallowed, he pointed his knife at his father's plate. "You should eat, it's really good."

"Yeah," John agreed gruffly. He picked up his fork and poked suspiciously at the meal. "You guys did all this?"

"Uh huh," Dean confirmed. "Max made the meat; she and Sam made the sauce. Sam did the veggies and noodles. See Dad, we're having spaghetti after all."

John, knowing that the turkey-ham concoction was good, tried the pasta. The sauce was exquisite, seasoned lightly with pepper. His surprise must have registered on his face, since the kids began snickering again. Satisfied that they really weren't trying to poison him, John finally dug into the meal with gusto.

"So what did you do Dean, other than supervise?" John asked with a smirk. Dean, still slurping at some noodles, mumbled something and gestured to the end of the table. John glanced at the covered portion.

Sam obligingly leaned forward and lifted up the makeshift cover. "Cake," he announced. He let the lid drop down and returned to his meal. "Of course, he made it from one of those box mixes. But he uh… modified it."

John paused. "It's not filled with rock salt, is it?" Dean's sputtering indignation amused him.

"Hey, if you don't want your share…?" Dean threatened.

John just grinned and passed his cup down to Sam, asking for cola and then turned to ask Max where she had come up with the idea for the main dish. It turned out that she had been curious about chicken cordon bleu that the popular girl in her class had been bragging about eating in a restaurant. But after reading a recipe for it, had ended up modifying the recipe to what they could afford. Didn't matter to John, the result was damn tasty.

Finally the end of the meal had come. Dean, after retrieving clean plates for his triumphant dessert, prepared to slice the cake. The first piece, quite large, he passed to John. The next went to Max, then Sam and finally he served himself. He resumed his seat and waited for his father to try the chocolate based confection.

John scooped up a generous helping of cake covered with a thick layer of whipped cream, accented with sauce and nuts. He savored the flavors in his mouth, inhaling deeply.

"So?" his eldest interrupted. John saw that the kids were waiting for his pronouncement before digging in themselves.

"I think," he paused dramatically, "that this dessert goes a long way to me not kickin' your butts all over town for this little stunt." Pleased grins were shared. "As it is, you guys are going to have fun tomorrow re-writing every single work order I put the wrong date on today." And then the evil grin came. "And whatever greasy… grungy… dirty… disgusting thing I can think of for you to do."

The dismayed groans were the perfect accompaniment to his heavenly slice of decadent turtle fudge cake.


End file.
